


heart beats slow (i wish you)

by decadent



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Panties, Riding, Rimming, The Great Panty Debacle of 2014, but it's there right between the lines if you look closely, mentions of the lightest subspace known to mankind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2638151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decadent/pseuds/decadent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“These,” Louis pauses with a half-eaten toast in his hand and a stale bite of buttery bread still in his mouth, he feels like choking on it, “are girl’s pants. Why would I look good in girl’s pants? Do you not like my current choice in underwear or what?”</p><p>Or, the one where Louis loves panties and Harry loves Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart beats slow (i wish you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanillalou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillalou/gifts).



> inspired by late night summer conversations about everything nice and naughty. 
> 
> shoutout to my ladies who kept me writing even when i was convinced i should have the keyboard taken away from me.
> 
> all that i own are my own mistakes.
> 
> i [tumble](http://letthemkissyou.tumblr.com).

The first time they talk about it, it’s a bit strange for Louis.

It’s not as much as a real conversation, but Harry’s been browsing through some British fashion lookbook that Debenham’s had sent him days ago, skimming his eyes over the thick, glossy pages dedicated to Agent Provocateur in high-resolution, nestled between Burberry and Christopher Kane.

There are about a million and one things Harry could say in terms of expensive fashion, but he’s not saying any of those. He’s not regarding any of the see-through Saint Laurent shirts he owns about a dozen of, or the silky Burberry scarves he uses to tie up his curls, he’s not. There’s not a single thing he’s pointed at and grunted, “need,” which is an achievement itself.

Harry and high fashion is a romance all of its own.

“These would look good on you,” Harry says, his voice thick and viscose like dripping syrup, curiosity and fervour etched into it as he points to a curvaceous blonde with an amazing round bum wearing a pair of lacy knickers. The lace is midnight blue with satin trim smoothing over the hips, delicate flowery pattern hugging her bum and it would all be unusually vague for Provocateur if it weren’t for the sleek black garter belt and barely opaque thigh-high stockings with tiny latex bow clips.

Positively filthy, Louis thinks, but he’s not sure why.

“These,” Louis pauses with a half-eaten toast in his hand and a stale bite of buttery bread still in his mouth, he feels like choking on it, “are girl’s pants. Why would I look good in girl’s pants? Do you not like my current choice in underwear or what?”

The briefest, tiniest moment of panic and a flash of confusion crosses over Harry’s face, brow furrowed he beckons Louis closer and sets the magazine back on the end table, resting it next to his steaming cup of tea.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” Harry mumbles as he buries his nose into Louis’ tummy, nuzzling his nose into the soft cotton of his worn-out gray tee. His stomach is all toffee golden skin and strong muscles, especially since Louis had been hitting the gym with Mark and Niall five times a week, but the skin still as soft as ever, and Harry lets out a groan of pleasure as he pushes the cotton upwards and drags his teeth over the sensitive skin of Louis’ lower abdomen, flitting his nose over the tiny patch of darker hair right where Louis’ joggers start. “Got a bum like a peach on you, love,” he whispers into his heated skin, “would love to see some lovely lace stretching over it.”

Harry grabs Louis by his arse, kneading his fingers into the soft flesh and gripping Louis’ bumcheeks in his large hands. Out of all the things Harry loves about Louis, from all his infinitely lovable emotional and physical traits, Harry can’t find a close contender to the feeling he gets when he gets to rub his hands all over Louis’ plush body, especially his arse.

His absolutely _lovely_ little plump peach arse.

The panty topic doesn’t leave Louis’ mind, though. Even when Harry’s sucking him off a few minutes later, pressing his fingers into his hips to keep Louis from bucking up into his throat, because Harry wants to take it slow – _always wants to take him slowly –_ licking hotly over his cock, swirling and kissing over the head and taking him in deep down to his throat, spreading spit and saliva all over Louis’ cock, crotch and abdomen, so everything is utterly debauched, hot, wet and perfect, Louis still has about a thousand thoughts running through his mind regarding the whole lingerie concept.

Whatever, he thinks as Harry pulls off an exceptionally nice move with his tongue, swirling over the sensitive head of his cock and lapping up the tiny beads of salty, slick precome that Louis’ dick keeps bubbling out in the tiniest of drops, and Louis can feel his tummy tighten up, the familiar heat curling in his belly. Harry grips Louis’ bum in his large hands, squeezing the firm muscles and enjoying them ripple underneath his touch.

Louis had once told Harry he probably had an oral fixation, right after the one week Harry had taken it upon himself to wake Louis up every single morning with his tongue pressed on the underside of Louis’ dick and his balls firmly between his fingers, everything spit-slick, hot and fucking glorious. Harry didn’t mind – if anything, he took it upon himself to prove Louis that he was right indeed.

That’s what he’s meant to do, that’s what Harry personally thinks he’s the best at – getting Louis so hot and bothered he can barely breathe, make him writhe underneath his touch, trail his nimble fingers all over his pretty pink nipples, pinch and roll them between his thumb and forefinger and then lick over soothingly, tug on the tiny trail of dark, coarse hair at the bottom of Louis’ tummy, touch all over his rock hard cock, slide his finger gently over the shaft before grasping it in his large paw-like palm and wank Louis off the way he loves the most – hard and fast with Harry’s face buried into his neck and his breath hot and heavy against his skin, his thumb making insistent circles over the head of Louis’ cock.

Louis is whimpering, his breathing ragged and coming out as dry sobs and choked moans, because everything feels just so damn _good._ Harry then pushes himself far far far down on his cock, having it press straight into the back of his throat, and that’s when Louis is done for, digging his fingers into Harry’s curls and pulling hard as he shoots into Harry’s mouth in thick, heady stripes of white hot come.

He’ll think about the lace panties tomorrow. Maybe.

 

 

The thing is, Louis can’t get the panty idea out of his head after that one certain night. He’s never been a people pleaser, his fuck-giving levels are mostly near zero, subpar at best, but he’s very much a Harry pleaser and whatever Harry comes up with, Louis sooner or later finds himself on board, even if a tad reluctant at first.

It’s Harry, is the thing. It’s Harry, whom no one can say no to, and out of all the people, Louis is the least immune to him. Made to love, they are.

The whole ordeal with knickers isn’t much different – when Louis at first found himself relatively frightened and bewildered at Harry’s statement regarding Louis, his bum and lace in a concurrent setting, then within the next week the more he thinks about it, the less of an awful idea it seems to him. It’s that and maybe a little bit of something else. It’s that and most definitely a lot of something else.

On another uneventful quiet night in as Louis is all bundled up in a thick down blanket, only his nose and fluffy tufts of hair peeking out from the comfortable warm burrito he’s wrapped himself into, he’s flicking through Netflix and Harry is gallivanting around London with Nick and his pretentious posse of homeless-looking rich hipsters. Fucking Grimshaw, Louis thinks.

Hesitantly, he picks up his laptop from the end table, propping it up on his knees on top of his duvet. Louis’ fingers are trembling, insides twisting and turning, just like every time Harry drags him onto rollercoasters in adventure parks he knows Louis is petrified of, but this time Harry’s not here to hold his hand and smooth over his knuckles. Harry is not there to kiss and whisper away his fears, it’s just Louis and his dark room and the Victoria’s Secret pink website. 

He goes over the thongs and g-strings, the cheekies and cheekinis – what’s even the bloody difference? – and when he’s done with the hiphuggers, he’s done with all the lingerie for the night. It’s too much, way too much for him to handle – it’s overwhelming for him alone or at the moment or maybe ever, he’s not even sure.

It’s an undetected territory for him and Louis feels foolish, so incredibly silly for being upset over some scraps of lace, but he’s afraid – God knows of what exactly – and there is a storm of emotions raging inside of him and he’s gone, emotionally way too gone, overwhelmed and upset with being in the dark room, all alone with the site and the panties and the fact that Harry asked a single little, teeny tiny, incredibly naughty thing of him and he can’t even do that.

Can’t even handle the _thought_ of it.

And if Louis thinks about it, thinks about it hard and good, he realizes that he’s not afraid of wearing the pants or picking them out from all the pinks and polka dots and little striped varieties or sitting on Harry’s lap while wearing them, rubbing his lace-covered arse tantalizingly over Harry’s rock hard cock, his arse alluring and delicious. Heaven knows how much Harry has gotten off to just Louis rubbing against him, covering Louis’ arse in perfect white hot stripes of come, all because of Louis.

Always because of Louis.

He’s something close to petrified, because he realizes he _wants_ it as well, that it’s not just a little thought Harry put into his mind, but maybe something that had been bubbling underneath the surface long before and Louis hadn’t been able to pin to the point before Harry had vocalized it, that he actually maybe even needs it. It’s sizzling underneath his skin, electrifying his fingertips and short-circuiting his brain, exhilarating and excruciating at the same time.

Louis realizes that he _wants_ the panties, he wants to sit in Harry’s lap, feel his boyfriend’s hard cock pressing against his arse and nudging at his bumcheeks, see the wet head of his own dick nudge over the top of the panties as something extremely filthy, dirty, wrong and incredibly right at the same time.

He wants Harry to praise him, call him his good, _good_ beautiful boy, he needs Harry to run his large hands over the smooth expanse of his tan skin, over his tight tummy and strong thighs, he wants Harry to lick into him with the tiny panties still covering his round arse, to make Louis come all over himself and his gorgeous little knickers, to make a mess out of himself, physically and even more so emotionally. Louis wants to let go and he wants to feel _pretty_ , he wants to be so, so beautiful and he wants gorgeous, soft things.

Louis wants that, he wants all of that so incredibly bad he’s going to do what seems to be the best option on hand, what everyone else would do in his position – he’s going to ignore it. He’ll ignore the crap out of it, really. His life doesn’t depend on the names Harry calls him in bedroom, so this all isn’t really that important, is it?

Instead of making himself feel like he wants to crash into the nearest brick wall headfirst and have all the tiny panties in the world and dirty thoughts in his mind spontaneously combust, he’s once again going to bury The Great Panty Debacle of 2014 in the back of his mind and not think about it. _Not. Think. About. It._

(Maybe think about it. Just a teeny bit every single moment of each day.)

 

 

Louis’ heart is pounding like a tiny hummingbird’s, wings fluttering and beating violently, his head is blurry, dizzy, palms clammy and everything feels like too much. He’s spent an entire lifetime in the shower, blazing water beating down his back and tiny droplets of heady water cascading down his face. There’s a little bit of guilt and maybe shame, remorse and humiliation all wrapped into one, a lot of excitement mixed with some serious desperation.

Mostly it runs smoothly from that point onwards, Louis dries himself off, rubbing the fluffy towel over his skin much harder than he’s supposed to – trying to rid himself of what the hot water didn’t manage to wash away, he’s not even sure what that is – and when he’s done, he steps into the panties, pulling them smoothly over his tan thighs and slipping them over his bum.

At that moment, as he pulls the black cotton knickers over his bum, a heart-shaped cut-out at the top of the crack of his arse, the pants embellished all over with tiny pink polka dots and a small satin bow of the same shade of pink right in the centre, right where his hard cock is going to peek out from, right where Harry is going to thumb excitedly over him, Louis is quite sure his heart is on it’s way to beating out of the cavity of his chest and everything feels hazy. Also, he’s already hard.

It wasn’t even planned, really. Louis had just been running errands, hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses, a beanie and a cream knit sweater most definitely borrowed from Harry, the jumper hanging off his tiny frame, the sleeves long enough to envelop his hands into soft sweater paws, veiled away from the curious looks of every passer-by. What had been a regular H&M run of scoop neck tees and socks (for Harry, never for himself) and some mindless trinkets and colourful vest tops for his sisters, had accidentally turned into the purchase part of The Great Panty Debacle, completely inadvertently.

He’d been at the till, all of his stuff and things thrown into the soft gray carrier, when he had spotted the multi-packs of three, soft dotted cotton knickers in various colour schemes. He’d been shopping girly stuff anyway, a rather eloquent cover-up, at least much better than walking into Ann Summers alone and buying the raunchiest pair he’d have managed to find.

In all honesty, even shopping for butt plugs had been way more comfortable. Even when Harry had insisted that Louis buy the stainless steel silver-plated one, back in 2013, with an ocean blue crystal embellished in the back, because it “matched his eyes.” Who the fuck matches butt plugs to eye colour, Louis had thought, but that hadn’t stopped him anyway. That also hadn’t stopped Harry, who had thoroughly enjoyed watching Louis sweat through the day, brows constantly furrowed and attention span brought to a definite minimum, with the pointed tip of the plug dabbing against his prostate relentlessly and later on he’d enjoyed Louis all squirmy, pliant and needy underneath his tongue from having been stretched open and kept on the edge all day long.

Happy days.

Louis has lost all the control over his accurate feelings, his insides are turning again and he’s nervous, _he’s just so damn nervous,_ so he pulls on another worn-out home tee that smells of Harry and a pair of dark trackies. He’s specifically ignoring the way the girly briefs are much tighter on him than any other underwear he owns, the way they are pressing right into his cock and balls and how that has not only managed to get him _very_ excited within a record time, it’s also perfect at keeping him relentlessly hard. Reminds him of the Ocean Blue Butt Plug Situation of 2013, really.

Again, this whole sudden anxiety comes very much down to the same reasons Louis had been petrified right in the beginning, when Harry had planted the thought into his head. He already feels gorgeous, maybe a little bit sexier than on most of the days. It’s not lace and it’s nothing too seductive or revealing, a pair of girl’s cotton knickers, but Louis thinks that this may be what makes the whole difference.

He feels a bit naughty, a lot playful with the way the prettiest pair of panties are on him, stretched his golden skin, accentuating the roundness of his bum the way even the tightest briefs don’t. It could be lace, but it’s not. It could be something latex or chiffon, but it’s not that either. It’s the perfect pair of good girl knickers that he’s wearing for Harry and Harry only. It’s the perfect pair of good girl knickers that are going to make Harry praise him as the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen and he’s going to enjoy that so, so much.

Louis trudges to their kitchen softly to fix himself a cup of tea, because whenever he doesn’t know what to do, what to feel or what to say, he makes tea. Could be something about how his mum had told him, when he was still little, that there is nothing a cup of tea can’t fix, but it also could be something else. Harry’s lying on the plush leather sofa, all limbs stretched out like an overgrown feline, and he looks delicious with the way his black jeans are clinging to his legs and his flannel has ridden a bit up, baring the soft skin of his tummy and the dark laurel tattoos contrasting against his pale skin.

He doesn’t offer to make Harry a cuppa. That’s going to get his attention, because Louis always fixes Harry his tea.

“Whatcha doin’, love?” Harry finally snakes his arms around Louis’ middle as he’s standing in front of the counter, pouring boiling water from the kettle into his cup, watching how the clear water turns a murky brown.

“Tea,” Louis replies simply as Harry turns him around, presses his whole body flush against Louis’ and nuzzles his face deep into his neck, sealing a tiny, innocent kiss into the warm skin. Louis smells fresh, clean and a bit like the vanilla body wash Harry uses.

“And where is my tea?” Harry inquires as he nudges his knee between Louis’ thighs, keeping him trapped between his body and the kitchen counter. That’s when he realizes Louis is hard – and not a bit excited, but literally rock-hard-tenting-in-his-joggers-why-didn’t-I-notice-before hard.

Louis looks up, wide blue eyes perfectly innocent and curious to Harry’s reaction. He takes a sip of his tea, “didn’t make you any. Got ten healthy fingers on yourself working just fine.”

“But,” Harry licks a fat stripe over Louis’ neck and presses his palm softly onto the bulge that’s prominently visible through the soft cotton of Louis’ trackpants. Louis lets out a high-pitched little whine, which Harry finds it painfully exciting and incredibly delicious, “what if I just took it,” he snatches the mug from Louis and takes a nice long gulp, still rubbing him slowly, “and you could tell me what’s this here?”

Louis makes a point of ignoring Harry and grabbing his mug back, sliding out of Harry’s grasp. He snatches the box of toffee biscuits off the kitchen counter and walks back to their bedroom, hips swinging from side to side, but not on purpose. Harry thinks Louis looks especially lovely today, like he’s got a certain glow to him and it’s not the sun that shines out of his arse daily, just because Harry is arse over tits so incredibly in love with Louis, _his_ Louis, but at the same time he finds him the absolute loveliest every day, so he follows him to their bedroom and is met with Louis burrowed underneath the blankets, the cup resting on the end table and he’s licking sticky, molten chocolate and caramel off his fingers.

Harry crawls up to Louis, slides his body flush against his, and pushes his hand under the shirt Louis is wearing. “This is my shirt, pup,” he whispers against Louis’ neck and licks over the warm skin. Louis tastes clean and a little spicy and smells so, _so_ good and he’s so, _so_ hard as Harry trails his fingers from his tummy to his cock, “always stealing my clothes, hm? Love how they look on you, darling.” 

Louis is making whiny little choked off sounds underneath him, Harry’s warm and wonderful and makes him feel safe and loved and he knows, deep down he knows that whatever’s going to happen tonight, it’s going to be alright, good, maybe even fantastic, because Harry is so good at loving Louis, taking care of Louis, kissing Louis, _everything_ Louis, so. Louis tries to force down all the dark thoughts that are clouding his mind, like a small thunderstorm inside him, and succumbs to the way Harry’s kissing him, languid and slow and licking right into his mouth, suckling gently on his tongue, and lets himself just feel. It’s marvellous, Harry makes him feel stellar and _infinite_ , like he’s on top of the world with toe-curling pleasure and they haven’t even fucking started.

“Wanna take your top off, pet?” Harry helps Louis sit up, the duvet falling off Louis’ body. It’s warm in the room, heated under the blanket and Louis’ toffee golden skin is already covered in a slight sheen of sweat and he’s literally glowing in the dim light of the room. Harry wants to lick him and eat him all up, take him apart with his fingers, tongue, cock and he doesn’t even have the tiniest clue of what Louis is hiding underneath the gray cotton of his trousers.

The muscles underneath the smooth skin of Louis’ tummy contract and ripple as he holds himself up enough to let Harry slide off his shirt, and it looks delicious. Harry instantly latches onto the warm skin, hovering over the soft expanse of his shoulder as Louis presents his neck to him, desperate for tiny kisses and little harsh bites that Harry tends to smooth over with his hot tongue and leave lovely little love bruises for days that Louis loves seeing in the mirror. He loves this, loves the feeling of belonging, loves the _evidence_ of belonging.

Louis is so lost in the way Harry’s mouth feels on him, heady and intoxicating, pressing his warm lips against his skin, giving little licks as if his skin were real caramel, sweet and sticky, and he completely misses the part where Harry has rid himself of his own shirt, the plaid flannel long forgotten somewhere on the floor, and starts tugging off his sweatpants and freezes when he sees what’s underneath.

“Holy _shit,_ Louis- fucking.. _fuck,_ ” Harry breathes out.

He’s all right, really. Harry does not have his heart beating right out of his throat and he doesn’t have his boyfriend right there lying underneath him, hair tousled and blue eyes glazed over with lust, tummy tight and skin golden and delightful and he’s definitely _not_ wearing the tiniest pair of girly panties with his cock peeking out from the very top, the thick pink head hiding behind a scrap of wet lace. _Wet._ Louis is not _wet_ from the briefest of touches, except…

Except he is and this all is real and happening and it’s all right there in front of Harry and he’s not even sure how he’s still breathing, but somehow, he is.

“Is this.. is this for me? Are those panties for _me_?” Harry asks as he thumbs over the head of Louis’ slick cock and brings the very same finger up to his mouth, pink tongue darting out to lick over it, not quite hitting his mark with all the excitement, so Harry gets some of it on his lips. _On his lips_. They’re now shiny with the happy liquid Louis’ cock has been trickling out, it’s quite definitely the wettest and hardest Louis has _ever_ been and… with the sex he’s having with Harry almost daily, that’s something. That really is something.

Louis is quite sure he has died and probably went to the heavenliest heaven of them all, because Harry is right there in front of him, watching him with heavy-lidded dark eyes, mussed-up curls framing his face like a dark nefarious halo and if Louis himself felt already fucked from the simplest of touches, the way Harry _looks_ is something sinful and he’s not even willing to bother with wondering if Harry’s feeling as racy as he looks.

That, and the fact that the thumb, which Harry has in his mouth, is covered with Louis own pre-come and he’s eating it all up like it’s his favourite thing he can’t ever get enough of.

“Y-yeah,” Louis stutters out. His breath hitches in his throat and he’s quite sure he’s going to combust if Harry doesn’t get any part of his body back on Louis’ in a second, preferably less. “Y-you said,” he whines, “you wanted panties and I’m sorry-so sorry, I didn’t want the,” he hiccups, “-the lace, but I found these,” Louis takes a deep, shaky breath in, “and they’re soft and lovely and I wanted- I wanted these.”

“Shh, baby boy,” Harry shuts him up with a searing kiss, dipping the pinkies of his fingers underneath the pants Louis is wearing, “you’re perfect. So perfect, so gorgeous,” he whispers, “and all mine. My beautiful boy, look at yourself,” Harry brings Louis to sit up on his knees and grabs him by his bum. Louis is so soft and lovely and pliant underneath Harry’s touch, a thousand sorts of debauched at the same time and Louis, well. He’s such a lovely juxtaposition to himself, right now he’s a coy little sex fucking kitten with no control, purring underneath Harry’s body, needy for kisses and touches, and at the same time he’s still the soft sunshine peeking through the curtains and warm cups of tea in the morning, always like soft putty in Harry’s touch.

“I could come from just looking at you,” Harry presses his words into Louis’ skin, seals them with a kiss and turns him over in his arms, “arms and knees, pet,” and Louis sinks down, his pert little arse presented right there, right in front of Harry, right in front of Harry’s face.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Harry’s next move: he noses over the swell of Louis’ bum, licks over the band of the lovely little panties, dipping his tongue underneath the edge and making Louis shudder underneath him. Louis is already panting, tiny whines stuck inside his throat, body positively writhing for friction against the expensive cotton sheets stuck onto his already sweaty skin.

Harry rubs a dry finger over the crack of his arse, smoothing down until he’s pressing into his hole through the panties and keeps on moving his finger over him, slow and steady. It’s enough to drive Louis crazy and wanting, make him feel like his own skin is too tight, hot, small for him as he’s squirming around under Harry, it’s even enough to haze Harry over with lust and want so bad he can barely think with his mouth dry and head empty, so Harry does the only thing he can think of.

Harry sucks a deep breath in, pulls the dotted cotton aside to reveal the tan, toffee skin of Louis’ arse, pushes the cheeks of his bum aside with his the fingers of his other hand and just, licks. The first broad lick, tongue flat and hot over Louis’ hole pulls an amazing reaction of out Louis – the moan he lets out is low, guttural and the hottest sound Harry has ever heard his boy make and with the way he’s pushing his hips back to Harry’s face, desperate for more, more, _more,_ is a good evidence of how Louis is feeling.

So, Harry goes to town, really, ends up pulling the panties halfway down so Louis is still half-bound by the tiny briefs, still rocking back into Harry’s face on his knees and Harry ends up on his knees himself, positioned right behind Louis with his arms circling Louis’ waist and his face buried in his arse, tongue moving over his tight little hole brazenly and relentlessly.

“Such a beautiful boy, Lou,” Harry breathes into his arse as he keeps squeezing the thick flesh of his bum in his hands, feeling how Louis keens underneath his touch, licking, biting and kissing over every inch of the perfect skin he’s presented with. He keeps on lapping over his boy, alternating the tiny licks over his hole with a broader touch of his tongue, right until Louis is until the verge of coming and Harry knows for a fact that he’s about to come. The way he’s pressing his face into the pillow, trying to shield himself away from Harry and his touch, trying to hide from himself – that is how he’s about to break apart into a million tiny pieces, only for Harry to fix him back together again.

Exactly that is when Harry sharpens his tongue and adds a slick index finger, presses soft pad of it upwards, right against Louis’ prostate and then he comes hard, _so hard_ that he clenches hard enough to press Harry’s tongue right out of his arse, hard enough to keep the grip on his finger tight as a vice, so hard his wild moans and low groans barely subside even when he’s long stopped coming.

“How are you, baby pup?” Harry whispers as he crawls towards the headrest and sits back on the pillows, pulling Louis towards him so he’s lying on top of Harry. Louis looks like an angel, Harry thinks, but an utterly debauched one at that. He’s still wearing the briefs, pulled taut right under his bum and sticky with his own come, hair messed up so heavily Harry _knows_ he’s been pulling on it himself while Harry was going down on him, eyes glassed-over and the sharpest blue he’s ever seen them and cheeks a soft, shy pink that gives Harry a vague idea of how much Louis has been enjoying himself.

“Good,” Louis murmurs against Harry’s warm skin as he nuzzles his face into his chest, “’s good. Need to come again, though,” he says quietly as he ruts himself slowly against Harry’s thigh. Everything is still sticky, sweaty and maybe a little bit uncomfortable, but still so good and Louis feels nice, so very nice and lovely as Harry wraps his arms his bare body and helps him ride his thigh, slow and steady and sure.

“Gorgeous,” Harry breathes into the soft tufts of Louis’ hair, “so beautiful for me, just me.”

Louis feels something, maybe pride and passion, quite definitely a whole lot of affection and adoration, flicker inside him and he realizes that this, this is exactly what he’s been needing the whole time. His head is light and pleasantly unsettled, he feels nice inside his own skin, like it isn’t too tight for him to fit into for a change – it feels like he’s floating and Harry’s tethering him back and it’s so lovely, the way Harry pulls his briefs back on, mind the fact he’s already positively ruined them, and keeps on working his hips against Harry’s thigh.

“Do you wanna ride me, babe? Sit down on my cock and show me how good you can make yourself feel on it, hm?” Harry presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss on Louis’ neck and keeps on working over the soft skin, spicy and sugary and sweet, sucking little bruises onto his collarbones that Louis is going to wear like a strand of pearls, proud and perfect. It’s almost as of Louis also gets off on belonging, on being _Harry’s_ and his alone, but that’s… a whole another thought for a whole another time that Harry keeps safely tucked away in the back of his mind, never forgetting.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis sighs as he climbs up on Harry’s body and slides the panties down, because he’s going to want all the leverage and breadth he’s going to get from his own physique without the knickers in his way, throwing them right onto the pillow, right where Harry’s resting his head while he’s slicking himself up and pressing two lube-drenched fingers into Louis’ hole. He pumps his fingers, scissors them until Louis is positively wailing and squirming on his lap, eager to sink himself down and clench around Harry.

Harry steadies Louis by his hips as he sits back onto his cock, slow and nice, and rests his arms on either side of Harry’s head for support. The panties are there, lying right beside Harry, reminding him of the strongest orgasm he’s had in months, reminding him of how pretty he’d felt when Harry had said he’s _his pretty boy, his gorgeous little boy_ , and there is not much more motivation that Louis needs. Harry grabs onto his wrists, wrapping his slender fingers around the fragile bones and keeps him down, anchored right onto him as Louis bounces up and down on Harry’s cock, eyes squeezed shut tight and tiny beads of sweat running down his forehead, chest, sides and tummy.

He’s hot, so heated, so _close_ and so is Harry – both panting and moaning, Harry’s low grunts meeting Louis’ high whines in the confines of their bedroom, and that’s when Harry takes the control back – he lets go of Louis’ wrists, snaps his fingers around his sides and raises his own hips to pound into the lovely arse of his boyfriend. Louis is already so wrecked and there is so much pride swelling in Harry’s chest and with the way he’s pounding into his prostate, he knows Louis is about to come and so is he.

There is only a certain amount of tight, hot heat and Louis' nice, little body that Harry can take on top of himself, grunting and whining loudly before he comes all over him, marking his body up well.

Louis comes with tears in his eyes and sharp little nails in Harry’s back, leaving tiny red crescents behind for Harry to remember the night by for days to come as he feels Harry release into him, hot come pulsing right into Louis. It takes them a while – could be ten minutes, could be an hour, the concept of time doesn’t feel as much as a constant but something relative to them, before they regain their breathing and Louis remembers to roll off of Harry, their skin sticking to each other.

He also takes a moment to flick the panties off the pillow. They land on a nearby lamp.

“Sleep, love?” Harry mumbles as he nudges Louis to his side, spooning right into him until Louis becomes pliant and soft underneath the arm he’s brought right over his waist and laced his fingers with his, resting them on top of his sticky tummy. Everything is tacky, clammy and nothing short of impeccable, absolutely perfect. It barely takes any resistance for Louis to press his arse back into Harry’s hips, let him be coddled into warm arms and have Harry whisper the quietest, loveliest things into his ear as he closes his eyes. Sleep comes easy that night.

 

 

“What are you doing?” Louis whispers into his pillow as he reluctantly opens his eyes. It’s morning, the room is warm and pink and a little sunny, the gentle rays of sunlight peeking into the room and illuminating it softly. He’s buried underneath the blanket, bundled up nice and warm, and Harry’s already focused, too focused on him with dazzling green eyes twinkling in the soft golden glow of the room.

“I’m going to get you opened up, all nice and loose for me,” Harry kisses against Louis’ lips, tasting the sleep on him, licking into his mouth slowly and suckling gently in Louis' tongue, his nimble fingers already working gently into his arse. His best, loveliest boy is all soft-limbed and lax against him, skin warm from the heavy, restful sleep and he’s already loose, a bit open and in general, very pliant and delightful from last night as he quietly parts his legs to give Harry better access. “And then I’m going to finger you until you cream all over yourself, then fuck you real well and hard and after that, I'll make you breakfast in bed. Sound good?”

“Oh,” Louis shudders, "alright".

It’s okay. It’s fine. Whatever.

Also, there are two pairs of knickers left from the three-pack.


End file.
